The Masada Complex Page 6

  The phone rang. He heard the bathroom door open and paused, unsure what to do.

  She must have hit the speaker button, and a man’s voice announced, “Masada, darling! How are you surviving? I am utterly sick over this!”

  “Don’t be sick, Dick. You’ll ruin the rugs.”

  “You are terrible!” Drexel laughed. “Listen, I have good news, and I have wonderful news. First, since this morning, online subscriptions to Jab Magazine are up sixty-two thousand!”

  “I feel warm and fuzzy. Let’s send a thank you card to Mahoney.”

  “Funny! Funny!”

  “What’s the other news?”

  “Our lawyer, Campbell Chadwick, filed court papers against the search and seizure. He expects you’ll have your stuff back by Wednesday at the latest. How’s that?”

  “Peachy,” Masada said. “Jab well done.”

  “Funny! Funny!”

  “Speaking of funny, where is the TIR Prize Mahoney made me throw away?”

  “The newsboy? I’ll send it over by messenger. Also, I got a call from New York. The book division is waiting for your outline of the new book.”

  “Soon.”

  “They’re anxious to capitalize on your current fame. They’ll pay you the next advance as soon as you deliver the first draft. You could use the money, right?”

  “Understatement of the year.”

  As soon as the bathroom door closed, Professor Silver stepped out to the garage, finding the Channel 6 crew setting up. The reporter stood by the Corvette, posing for the cameraman, counting into a microphone.

  “Don’t mind me,” Silver said. “Just getting something from the car.” He entered the Corvette and continued his search. Finding nothing behind the seats, he went through the car a second time, finally giving up.

  Masada reappeared in a pantsuit that exaggerated her height, clinging to her narrow hips and flaring out downward in a bell shape over her shoes. She seemed to walk on air. The jacket was open in the front, showing an ivory blouse over firm breasts. She wore no jewelry and her hair was loose.

  The cameraman attached a microphone to her blouse. Silver stood in the corner. It was hot, even with the big fan they had set up.

  “This is Tara Flint,” the reporter said, “reporting from the home of Masada El-Tal. First, can you tell us why the FBI searched your home last night? Are you a suspect?”

  Masada looked into the camera. “Senator Mahoney’s suicide was a tragic event. He was a war hero and a dedicated politician. But my article was based on irrefutable evidence and the senator’s own confession. The FBI search is nothing but harassment, and our legal counsel is fighting it.”

  “Senator Mahoney accused you of failing to tell the whole story. What else do you know about Judah’s Fist, its members and its sponsors? How are you planning to expose them?”

  “What I know so far has appeared in my article. I’ll continue to investigate until Judah’s Fist and its Israeli sponsors are brought to justice.”

  “The Associated Press reported today that,” the reporter glanced at her notes, “according to a source in Jerusalem, a prominent Israeli-American writer was once convicted in Israel and served time for manslaughter. Are they talking about you?”

  Professor Silver watched Masada’s face, admiring her self-control. She bent her right leg, shifting her weight to the left, and said, “Why don’t you ask them?”

  Verdi’s Nabucco was playing on the radio. Elizabeth McPherson, chief counsel for the U.S. Immigration Service, Southwest Region, sifted through the photos in the file until she found the one showing the scrawny wife washing dishes. “And this, Your Honor,” Elizabeth held up the photo, “was submitted by Mr. Hector to support his application for citizenship, purporting to depict a happy wife, her loving husband hugging her while she cleans up after dinner.” Elizabeth approached the chair she had positioned under the dark window as stand-in for the judge. “Unfortunately, as this court must realize, this photo is a fake.”

  The phone rang, interrupting her rehearsal for tomorrow’s court hearing. Only one person could be calling five hours after the office had closed.

  “David?”

  There was silence at the other end.

  “Hello? David?”

  The caller hung up.

  Elizabeth put down the receiver and faced the empty chair. “As I was saying, Your Honor, this idyllic photo was staged in a newly constructed home where Mr. Hector worked as a painter. Moreover, close examination of this woman’s arms shows multiple needle marks.”

  She paused for a certain objection from opposing counsel and responded, “My esteemed colleague forgets that drug use proves disregard for the law and need for money. Based on this evidence, we ask this court to rule that Mr. Hector’s marriage was a fraud, deny his application for citizenship and order his deportation.”

  With a satisfied sigh, Elizabeth gathered the documents into the file. After her ulcer operation two years ago, she had promised Dr. Gould to leave the office no later than 10 p.m. every night, which was now according to the radio.

  The hourly news began with reports of vandalism at Jewish institutions in several major cities, threatening phone calls to Jewish leaders, and demonstrations in front of the Israeli embassy in D.C. The American-Muslim Central Committee issued a statement calling for an end to the “pro-Israel hegemony in Washington.”

  “That’s right,” Elizabeth said out loud.

  Checking her calendar for tomorrow, she noted the 9 a.m. hearing before Judge Rashinski and a department meeting at noon. A doctor’s appointment was marked for 4 p.m. She rubbed her lower abdomen and pushed away her fears. Years of intestinal problems and hormonal irregularities had taught her to watch her diet and manage stress, but recently her abdominal discomfort resumed-not with pain, but with nausea and hardness of her lower tummy. She turned off the lights and sighed. Why now, when everything’s going so well?

  Walking down the empty hallway, Elizabeth reached into offices and turned off the lights, making a mental note to scold her staff for such waste. Exiting the elevator downstairs, she startled the guard, who stood up, his newspaper rustling. “Miss McPherson!”

  “Hi, Rickie.” She pushed the door, and a gush of hot air hit her face. “Good night.”

  The guard’s pickup truck was parked near the steps. Her own car, a seventeen-year-old Toyota, was in her reserved space, down from the director and his three deputies, who were long gone for the day. She didn’t mind. A female immigrant would not rise to chief counsel without exceptional diligence. She glanced up at the white building towering over her. People had expected her to slow down, but she worked even harder, determined to break through yet another glass ceiling.

  Reaching her car, she noticed a black sedan in David’s spot. He had left hours ago, going home to his wife and daughter. Elizabeth searched her purse for the car keys.

  The sedan’s door opened, the interior lights outlining a man in the driver’s seat.

  Elizabeth found the keys and unlocked her car.

  The man emerged from the black sedan and said, “Good evening.”

  In the dim light she saw black-rimmed glasses under a dark beret, a gray goatee, and suspenders over a white shirt. He was not young, maybe sixty or seventy.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said, handing her a piece of paper.

  It was a photo of this man with his goatee and black beret standing next to a stooped man in a white robe and a checkered headdress. On the back, a hand had scribbled a sentence in Arabic: Daughter, help this important friend in whatever he asks of you. Allah is great.

  The signature below resembled the endorsement signatures on the monthly checks that came back with her bank statements. In disbelief Elizabeth turned over the photo and looked closely at the face.

  “Your father,” the man said, “sends his love.”

  Elizabeth pointed to the white building. “Seventeen years I have worked here. Before that, seven years of night shifts at Circle K while attending
college and law school. Whatever I’ve made, ten percent has gone to him. But not a word of thanks.

  Ever!”

  The man nodded. “Hajj Mahfizie praises you every day.”

  “Not a word in twenty-four years.” She shook the photo in the man’s face. “Now this?”

  “A new beginning perhaps?” He raised his black-rimmed glasses and dabbed his right eye with a white handkerchief. “Allah works in mysterious ways.”

  She tilted the photo under the street lamp. “He looks old. Is he ill?”

  “Your father is tired, his strength drained by decades of struggle against the Israelis. But he is optimistic about the future-an independent Palestine for our children.”

  Elizabeth fought back her tears. “Children were not my strength. He probably told you.”

  “You are his child, Elzirah.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Hajj Mahfizie is proud of his prominent daughter.”

  She shrugged.

  “He is the conscience of the refugee camp, especially for the young men, who are filled with hate. The West Bank is still a place of suffering. You know about suffering, yes?”

  Elizabeth leaned against her car, feeling weak. “As they say, you can take the refugee out of the camp, but you can’t take the camp out of the refugee.”

  The old man smiled. “You miss him.”

  “He sold me like a sheep.”

  The man bowed slightly, as if in apology. “Your father regrets letting you marry so young.”

  “He regretted having to pay Hassan back the money he had gotten for me.”

  The man tugged on his goatee. “Your father did his best.”

  “He sold a sixteen-year-old girl, who spoke only Arabic and had never left the refugee camp, to a fifty-year-old butcher, who took me to America. I lost half my weight in four months and as many pregnancies.”

  “I understand.” The man crumpled his beret. “He prayed for Allah to bless you with your own family in a free country.”

  “Hassan accused me of causing the miscarriages, and Father believed him. Do you know the punishment for abortion under the law of Sharia?” She choked. “I was a child myself!”

  The man dabbed at his eye again. “Your father begs Allah’s forgiveness every day.”

  He was wrong, of course, but Elizabeth had no will to dredge up the pain. “Who are you?”

  He bowed. “Here, I am known as Professor Levy Silver.”

  “A Jew?” She had assumed he was a Palestinian who had lost his accent after many years in America. “My father sent me a Jew?” She reached into the car and pulled out her purse. “How much?”

  “No, no!” He put his hands up. “Money is not a problem.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  He pointed at the building. “I seek permanent resident status.”

  “File an application. If you have a job, your employer can sponsor you.”

  “My employer is you.”

  She looked at him. Was he mad?

  “I work for you and the rest of the Palestinian people. My work is secret, of course.”

  Elizabeth entered her car.

  “I need a green card, and you are in the best position to fix it.”

  “Fix it?”

  “Hajj Mahfizie was told of your position. Such a title entails lots of power.”

  “It entails a duty to enforce the law, Professor, not to break it.” She started the engine. “For your sake, I will forget this conversation ever happened.” She began to close the door.

  He grabbed it halfway and leaned into her car, emitting a smoker’s breath. “I’ll meet you tomorrow night, ten-fifteen, at McDonald’s on the corner of Indian School and Twelfth Street.”

  She was paralyzed. How did he know her Tuesday night routine?

  “Meal number three.” He smiled, adjusting his black-rimmed glasses. “With strawberry shake. To go.”

  Elizabeth McPherson watched the professor get into his black sedan. She gripped the steering wheel to stop her hands from shaking and wondered, Does he know what I do on Wednesday nights?

  Tuesday, August 5

  Rabbi Josh stopped by to check on Masada, who was already up, unpacking boxes of books. She was barefoot, in loose jeans and a white tank top, smelling of shampoo. She offered him her cheek.

  “Good book.” He pointed to The Case for Israel by Allan Dershowitz.

  “He got it all wrong.” Masada pulled a bunch of volumes from the open box and lined them on the shelf.

  He noticed the circles under her eyes. “How did you sleep?”

  She shrugged.

  “Nightmares are common after a traumatic event.”

  “You’re talking from personal experience?”

  “I’ve worked with veterans.”

  She stacked more books on the shelf. “Don’t psych me. I’m not one of those lunatic veteran the U.S. military is so good at producing.”

  He knew she was referring to Al Zonshine, who had stalked her after her lecture at Temple Zion, having convinced himself that Masada was interested in him. It had taken the rabbi’s intervention and a threat of a restraining order to keep Al away. “Vietnam crippled a lot of souls,” Rabbi Josh said. “It’s not like serving in the Israeli army.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Am I wrong?”

  She grabbed her keys from the counter. “Let’s go for a drive.”

  The garage was hot. Masada started the Corvette and turned up the AC.

  “Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome,” Rabbi Josh said, “isn’t a cause for shame. Some people are fine for years, able to suppress the memories, live with an emotional time bomb. Then something happens.”

  “Like a car flying into a ravine?” Masada pressed the gas, revving the engine.

  “Or witnessing a violent suicide.” He glanced at her. “A new trauma saps the mental energy needed to contain the old trauma, which then explodes to the surface.”

  “I left my ticking bombs in Israel.” She reversed out of the garage.

  “Old traumas continue to tick even if we try to suppress them. They often manifest in vivid nightmares.”

  Masada accelerated up the street, turning into Echo Canyon Road without slowing down. “You think I’m going crazy?”

  Her tone confirmed he had touched a nerve. “Are you?”

  Masada decelerated sharply to stop at a red light. “I’m not Al Zonshine.”

  Rabbi Josh turned to her but said nothing. Her thinness extenuated the features of her face-a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a perfect jaw. He interlocked his fingers, keeping his hands in his lap, longing to touch her. “He is a member of my flock. I’ve tried to help him fight off his demons.”

  “Unsuccessfully, it seems.”

  “Has he bothered you again?”

  “Not since the restraining order was issued.” Masada took off as the light changed, pushing the car hard. She downshifted, approaching a turn. “There’s a barf bag under the seat.”

  “Thanks.” He laughed, realizing the drive was intended to test him.

  “Did Raul like my Corvette?”

  “He wants me to trade the Honda for one of these. I told him it’s unbecoming for a rabbi.”

  Masada downshifted to pass a slower car and turned right on Camelback Road so fast that he had to grab the door handle to avoid falling on her. She laughed. “God, I love this car.”

  “God loves you too.” He watched her shifting gears with a slender arm. The radio played, I’m a prisoner of your soul, a lifer in paper walls, plastered with your face, before you left this earth. He thought of Linda’s photos on his own walls, her clear eyes framed in carrot-red curls, a smile that was contagious even when he cried.

  Masada lowered the volume on the radio. “A shekel for your thoughts.”

  He hesitated. “I miss my wife.”

  “Do you feel guilty about liking another woman?”

  “Liking would have been fine. But when it’s more
than liking-”

  “Guilt is impractical. I prefer anger.” Masada pushed her hair behind her ears. “Aren’t you angry at whatever killed her?”

  “I’m angry at myself.” Rabbi Josh sighed. “How about you?”

  “It’s easy for me. I blame Israel for the deaths of my parents and brother.”

  “Is that why you’re so eager to indict Israel?”

  “Who else would pay Mahoney to sponsor a mutual defense act with Israel?”

  “Christian fundamentalists? Jehovah’s Witnesses? Michael Jackson? The world is filled with misguided souls.”

  “Only countries spend that kind of money on bribes, and Israel is the only country interested in legislation that would force our president to declare war on whoever attacks Israel.”

  “And require Israel to fight against anyone attacking America.”

  “Ha!”

  “It’s convenient to only see the facts that support your theory.

  Can’t you acknowledge the possibility it wasn’t Israel?” Rabbi Josh put his arm forward as the car came to a screeching halt at a red light. “That Fair Aid legislation is a terrible development.”

  “Israel should have learned from the Pollard affair, the Abramoff and AIPAC scandals. Instead, they bribed Mahoney, and failed.”

  “You say ‘Israel’ as if it’s a single entity that acts and speaks in one voice. You know how divided and conflicted Israel is, including the ever-changing coalition government. And even if one of Israel’s agencies did bribe Mahoney, should the whole Zionist enterprise suffer?”

  “I don’t hear Israeli voices protesting the smear campaign against me.”

  “What did you expect? They have to discredit you by showing that you have a score to settle.”

  “You condone their tactics?” The light went green, and Masada threw the clutch, spinning the wheels until they caught traction, and the car bolted with a roar of its engine.

  He tugged on the seatbelt, which hurt his shoulder. “The Fair Aid Act would cause suspension of military aid and a full-scale Senate investigation. One committee might spawn seven subcommittees, and so on. To discredit your accusations, the Israelis must discredit you. I’m sad to see them lie-”